après la chute
by mon-petit-pois
Summary: He falls twice from grace.


i.

 _There was a boy in a cradle. His fragile, newborn limbs peeked out from under a red blanket trimmed with shimmering gold. This symbol of royalty, swaddled in his nation's favor and warmed by noble blood, looked up with wide eyes of pure gold and blinked at the smiling woman above him. Outside, trumpeters announced his arrival with triumphant fanfares. But inside, hiding their words behind curtains in hushed tones, the wise keepers of the nation's traditions whispered. The boy was not old enough to understand, but one day he would learn that his eyes, though they shimmered and sparkled and shined up at his mother, did not_ spark.

 _There was a man standing over him. He scowled, turned his back, and said, "This is no son of mine."_

There is a boy on a ship. He stands straight with squared shoulders and head held high, but his face tells a different story in black and blue and permanent, glaring red. His eyes, once the color of soft gold, now shine as hardened amber with only one goal in sight. His clothes, once the vibrant color of his nation, have been reduced to tatters and ashes and traded for snow-white camouflage. Royal blood courses through his veins, hot with adrenaline, fighting the cold as he breathes in, out, in the dry northern air. He cloaks himself with pride to hide what lies beneath.

There is a man behind him, and when he speaks the boy starts. The cloak slips; his shoulders slump. The man swallows. "But ever since I lost my son…" The words warm the air and the boy breathes them in, allowing himself for just a moment to appreciate their meaning and the arms that have enveloped him. In the next few months he will think often of this moment, of these words, but not often enough.

ii.

 _There was a boy at a table. He listened with rapt attention, his back straight and hands folded in his lap—a picture of obedience and poise. The gold of his irises shone with proud determination. Flames might not blossom from his palm as easily as he hoped, but that was not his only royal duty. In this room, he would succeed. In this room, he would perform honorably._

 _In this room, he stood up for what was right, his voice echoing through the chamber long after he fell silent._

 _There was a man atop a throne who rose to meet the boy's words. The flames grew and grew, raging and swallowing all the air in the room, and the boy nearly choked on the heat and the horror and the booming voice that he would never be able to rid from his memory. For a moment, there was only red._

There is a boy in a cavern. Adorned in green, lit by crystal, he has a choice to make. For a long moment, he hesitates. For a long moment, he considers both equally, but the blood in his veins will always pump the crimson of royalty, the air at the end of his fist will always turn to fire, and his hardened, amber eyes have had only one goal for too many years now. In that cavern, he makes his choice.

In that cavern, he does his duty, then stands down.

There is a man made prisoner in crystal, and he shuts his eyes and looks away. The boy nearly chokes on something he does not quite understand and, for a moment, he feels only red.

iii.

 _There was a boy in an arena. His chest bare, his muscles flexing, he stood and turned to face his challenger. Adrenaline surged through his veins and his golden eyes strained past the torchlight to find a familiar outline, horribly familiar…_

 _There was a man advancing with a slow, measured stride. The boy fell to his knees. He pressed his forehead to the cold tile, clasped his hands, and begged._

There is a boy in a tent. Long hair nearly obscures his face from view, but look closely and see that his eyes are soft and made of gold again. His shoulders slump, his head hangs, and he prepares. For a whole night, he prepares.

There is a man before him, facing away and stretching and yawning from a good night's rest. He turns just that bit before falling still, silent.

The boy finds his voice, hands tightening on his knees, and he begs.

iv.

 _There was a boy kneeling upon cold tile. A dreadful chill had infiltrated his whole body, from his knees to his hands to his forehead pressed against the stone. He looked up from where he had fallen, prostrate, with eyes of brittle gold that stream tears down his unblemished face. His spine curled downward, defeated._

" _Please, Father…"_

 _There is a man towering over a pleading child. He fills his palm with fire and in one smooth blow strikes his son's face, interrupting pleas for mercy with white-hot flames that ravage until the boy's tears and skin have burnt away into a mess of bubbling, screaming red._

There is a boy upon soft carpet. Fear trembles in his hands and twists his stomach into knots, and he does not try to stop the tears that burn their way down his blemished face. His quaking, pleading voice shows clearly how much is at stake.

"I am so, _so_ sorry, Uncle…!"

There is a man sitting before his nephew, and he gives no warning before he turns, interrupting the boy's pleas, and pulls him all at once into warm, sturdy, _protective_ arms. They are both crying, then, as absolution settles gently on their shoulders. Words from months ago, nearly forgotten, float back and echo in the boy's ears.

 _I think of you as my own._

The boy sinks into his uncle's embrace, and weeps.


End file.
